


What Gives

by baudown



Series: Spander Shorts [6]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Basement of Doom, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:37:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6495661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baudown/pseuds/baudown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old hand, already, at tending to wounds...</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Gives

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published for slashthedrabble at livejournal, April 6, 2016. 500 words. Prompt: Domination/submission.

The first time it happens, Spike protests. “It’ll heal on its own,” he says.

“Don’t be dumb,” Xander snaps, tightly gripping Spike’s wrist, attempting to force a surrender. Spike could break the hold in an instant, but he doesn’t, and isn’t sure why.

“Not that deep,” Xander says, inspecting the wound. “Butterfly stitches should do it.”

The boy’s hands are large — a workingman’s hands — but also, surprisingly graceful.

Spike leaves the line of plasters in place, even after the scar is gone.

 

  
Spike rolls his eyes, but keeps his mouth shut, and submits to the boy’s ministrations. Xander hums softly — a comforting sound — as he tweezes the glass from Spike’s head. An old hand, already, at tending to wounds, and the boy is barely eighteen. You might find it sad, were you thusly inclined, which Spike decidedly isn’t.

“I think that’s the last of it,” Xander says, his fingertips still in Spike’s hair.

“Don’t fuss,” Spike complains, not pulling away. Then: “Ta,” he says to the floor.

 

  
“Now?” Xander asks. Spike shuts his eyes, nodding. The boy takes a breath, lifts his hands to Spike’s face. There’s a gruesome crunch-crunch: broken bones, realigning. Spike gasps and moans, for dramatic effect, but the boy thinks he’s actually hurt him.

Xander jerks back, turning pale, looking stricken. His hands flutter lamely, unsure where to land, before they touch down on Spike’s shoulders.

Spike prods at the break, assessing the damage. His nose feels swollen, but straight.

“You think I’d do something to ruin that face?” Xander blushes, hands slipping away.

 

  
He eases Spike onto the sleeping chair, and cautiously rucks up his shirt. “Christ,” he whispers. “Did you break every rib?” Hoof-shaped bruises — deep purple, blue-black — run riot over Spike’s skin.

Spike tries to shrug, an ill-conceived notion. This time, his groans are authentic.

Xander huffs: “Say goodbye to this bad boy,” and scissors Spike out of his shirt. He smooths soothing ointment on tender spots, turning Spike weak with relief. _Don’t stop, don’t stop_ , he silently begs. But Xander’s moved on to taping his ribs, and hissing out accusations.

“You saw them coming! Why didn’t you move? What’s up with you, lately? What gives?”

It’s true, he’s been fighting poorly. Not sloppy enough that he’s lost any fights; but enough to ensure…

to ensure…

that he’s _injured._

It’s nothing he’s consciously plotted or planned, but the _pattern_ — it can’t be ignored. Spike’s been here before. He knows what it means. For him, this never ends well.

“No chair for you,” Xander murmurs, helping Spike limp to the bed. It’s a torturous trip, but worth every step, because Xander climbs in beside him. So good, so close, only inches apart. Spike’s fingers are itching to bridge the distance, but it’s hopeless to reach for more.

Xander’s voice, like a promise, sleepy and sweet: “Tell me you’ll be more careful.”

Spike hopes that his _yes_ sounds convincing. It’s an empty promise, and bound to bring pain, but it’s better than nothing at all.


End file.
